


Come loose your dogs upon me

by loveinadoorway



Series: Want an axe to break the ice [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:32:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Broken people, broken hearts... And surprises.</p><p>Title and quotes from Nick Cave's Ship Song. Beautiful thing. Listen, if you haven't already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come loose your dogs upon me

_Your face has fallen sad now_   
_For you know the time is nigh_   
_When I must remove your wings_   
_And you, you must try to fly._

Where the hell was Mrs. Hudson?

Lestrade ran up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, broke through the door and then made his way to the bedroom.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor next to the bed, leaning against the side. He looked like hell, which arguably was only to be expected. Still, Lestrade was shocked to see track marks on the white skin of Holmes’ arms.

How had he not noticed just how thin the man had become? How had he not noticed ANY of this?

Lestrade knelt down next to Sherlock, who hadn’t acknowledged his presence at all. He put his fingers on the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

“Haven’t done it yet, you idiot,” Sherlock mumbled, “Just took enough to stop hurting. Don’t want to hurt like that anymore. CAN’T hurt like that anymore. And you made me promise I’d let you talk to me first. Sherlock Holmes always keeps his promises.”

Sherlock laughed. It sounded as if the sound was ripping the man’s throat to shreds.

Okay, good, Holmes hadn’t overdosed just yet.  Lestrade ran his hand through his hair. Now what? Not exactly his expertise, fixing someone who’s badly broken, was it? Oh God, was what he to do now?

Lestrade gingerly settled down close to Sherlock and put his arm around the world’s only bloody fucked up consulting detective.

“Greg…”

Wow, that was a first. Who’d have thought the bugger would manage to get the name straight after all?

“Greg, John’s gone now.”

Lestrade’s first impulse was to say something horribly stupid along the lines of how marriage wasn’t the end of the world and how John would always be there. As a friend. He determinedly bit down on that impulse, though.

“Yes, Sherlock.”

Their eyes met for the first time since Lestrade had arrived and he was devastated by what he saw in Sherlock’s. He continued as softly as he could.

“Two years, Sherlock. You were gone for two years. And it killed him that you were gone. He needed to move on, he needed to start living again. And Mary is a wonderful person. She did him worlds of good.”

“I wish I could hate her,” Sherlock whispered.

Greg squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. What else was there to say, except for the one thing Sherlock wouldn’t want to hear?

“I understand. And I also understand how you feel right now. But there are just two ways to go from here – and believe me, none of them should involve you dying.”

“Ad one: Sherlock turns into a bigger man than he actually is, wishes the happy couple well and then buggers off into the setting sun, stiff-upperlipping it all the way. Thank you, tried that, does not work for me.”

Somehow, Lestrade took a smidgeon of hope from the acerbic undertone. Sarcastic Holmes was better than completely fucked up Holmes.

“Ad two: Have a little chat with Mary. Point out that I could kill her in at least four dozen ways which wouldn’t show up in an autopsy. Tell her I intend to have John on, say, Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays and she is welcome to the rest. Hmmmnnnaaah, that wouldn’t work, either. John would never be comfortable with such an arrangement.”

“No. You can either remain John’s friend, keep solving crime with him and start living your own life with someone else, or you can completely strike them from your life and start living your own life with someone else,” Greg said firmly and with much more conviction than he actually felt.

There was that laugh again, like broken glass and barbed wire.

“And I suppose that someone else would be you, then? And we would go see Arsenal on the weekends and have a pint in the pub with some of your colleagues? Sunday roast at your mother’s?”

Lestrade felt slightly ill. He had thought nobody would be able to see that, least of all the highly functioning sociopath he loved to distraction. And now Greg would get his heart ripped out, stomped on and handed back to him on a platter. He swallowed convulsively.

“I know you’d never even consider me. I’m too dull, I’m too old and I’m just… too me. Too not John. I know that. But you could find someone else, someone more to your taste. John Watson is not the only man in the world.”

“He is to me.”

Sherlock fought his way up and on the edge of the bed. There was a thin trail of blood on the white shirt, shocking in the intensity of the colour among all the white.

“You need to leave now, Inspector.” Sherlock’s voice was calm, final.

“You would have to have completely taken leave of what is left of your faculties to believe I would go now so you can kill yourself. That is just not going to happen.”

_We talk about it all night long_   
_We define our moral ground._   
_But when I crawl into your arms_   
_Everything comes tumbling down_

Lestrade was hoarse and it was a really, really good thing that Sherlock was not exactly himself, because Greg had run out of arguments hours ago and had just basically been repeating himself since then.

The first rays of the sun were filtering through the drapes.  
If he had to, he could keep this up all day. There was no one, absolutely no one more stubborn than Greg Lestrade.

Sherlock got up, grabbed a small bag from the nightstand and walked towards the bathroom.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I need a fix. Now.”

Sherlock had that look in his eyes that Lestrade hated. It was usually only making an appearance when Sherlock had already been informed that a certain course of action would be wrong and when he was doing it regardless, daring anyone to judge him, despise him, hate him.

He sighed and got laboriously up from the floor.

“I’m coming with you. You’re not going to lock yourself in there and overdose on my watch.”

When the needle slid home, Greg had to look away. He half expected a nasty comment, but of course, Holmes wasn’t even noticing him at all. Not being noticed because of John Watson was one thing, but being ignored for a high…

He shouldn’t have let the man shoot up in the first place, but what good would force have done there? The only person who could get Sherlock out of this addiction was Sherlock.  
And Lestrade couldn’t really fix anything, anyway, could he now? He didn’t even know how to help Holmes with his broken heart. He was pathetic. All he could think of was how good he would be to Sherlock, how well he’d treat him, how he’d… Yes, pathetic.

“Are you now finally sufficiently fed up and disgusted with me to leave me bloody well alone, Greg?” Sherlock said, much too gently.

“No. You’re an arsehole, always have been, always will be. And I’ve stuck it out with you. I’m not going to fucking leave you when you’re hurting and broken. You know why? Because I am NOT an arsehole!”

Sherlock was resting his cheek against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall. His eyes were slightly unfocused, the telltale pinprick pupils gazing into God knew what void.

“And you know what?” Greg continued with a laugh,” Just so we’re crystal clear here, the OTHER reason I’m not the fuck going anywhere is that I fucking love you. I can’t help that now, can I? It just happened.” Greg took a deep breath. “It just fucking happened.”

When Sherlock moved forward and rested his forehead against Greg’s, Lestrade nearly forgot to breathe.

“We make quite the pair, don’t we, Greg?” Sherlock whispered. “See, it’s not so much that I want to die, you know. It’s just that I so very much don’t want to live like this.”

With that, Sherlock kind of crumpled against Lestrade and buried his face in the other man’s shoulder. For a while, Lestrade just didn’t know what to make of this, but then suddenly, Sherlock started to shake and then big, heaving sobs broke out of him. Greg gently rubbed Holmes’ back, made soft noises and when Sherlock finally calmed, he helped the man back to bed, lay down next to him and pulled him close.

_Come sail your ships around me_   
_And burn your bridges down._   
_We make a little history baby_   
_Every time you come around._

When Lestrade awoke, Sherlock was no longer in bed with him. He rose with a sick feeling in his gut. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep. It was his job to keep the man safe, for fuck’s sake.

Sherlock was in the living room, in the old armchair. He actually looked a little bit better than last night.

Lestrade didn’t have the slightest idea what to do or say next. What rotten luck to be in a situation like this, what with him being not exactly at his best around big emotions and Sherlock, well, Sherlock being Sherlock. Awkward, with a spot of queasy.

Sherlock, however, appeared to be quite calm and composed.

Have you been up long?” Greg asked when the silence had stretched way beyond uncomfortable.

“An hour, maybe. I’ve been thinking, Greg.”

Okay, what now?

“What would you do with me, if you had me?” Sherlock said, turning to look Greg straight in the eye.

Greg laughed. Then instantly sobered, when he saw Sherlock’s expression. The man was serious. Great.

“If I had you, I’d…. I’d love you. Make sure you’re okay. Take care of you. You know, rehab and such?”

“But why would you want to? I – as we now both know – love John. Why would you keep on loving me, if I couldn’t love you back?”

Nice. Don’t sugarcoat it quite so much, will you?

“Because that’s not how love works, you idiot. And you should know it doesn’t.”

Sherlock seemed to ponder this answer very thoroughly. Hands steepled, intense concentration on his face - if Greg didn’t know better, he’d never suspect there was anything wrong with the man. He should have seen it right away, right when Sherlock had come back. He should have been able to gauge if Sherlock was alright or not, after all he claimed to love the man. How could Sherlock hide his addiction so well?

Then Sherlock turned again towards Lestrade and the illusion of normalcy was gone. There was something wild and alien and desperate in his eyes.

“You would be getting a fairly shoddy deal, Greg. As far as I can see, the only thing I have to offer in return would be … my body, as it were. Sex. Would that be enough?”

No. That would not ever be enough. Never.

Out loud he said, however, “Yes. I think I could work with that. That and maybe a little bit of companionship. Would that be doable?”

“No football matches,” Sherlock growled.

“Okay. And you’ll check into rehab today.”

“When I am ready.”

“TODAY,” Lestrade said with finality. God, he couldn’t watch Sherlock self-destruct, not even one more time.

“My, my, how forceful. Didn’t know you had it in you. Very well then. Today. And my addiction stays between you and me.”

“Good God, what do you take me for? As if I’d run off and tell Scotland Yard!”

“The Yard and what it makes of me doesn’t concern me,” Sherlock said, expression unreadable.

“Oh. JOHN. You don’t want John to know. No, of course not. Anything you want, Sherlock, anything.”

Greg mentally kicked himself. Should have been obvious.

“This is a marriage of convenience, so to speak. Best not forget it, Greg.”

When he drove away from the rehab facility later, he still wondered at how cold Sherlock’s voice had sounded when he had said that.

_Come loose your dogs upon me_   
_And let your hair hang down._   
_You are a little mystery to me_   
_Every time you come around._


End file.
